listening to this damned faucet drip. sitting here wrapped in blankets half-past 6 on an ice cold, dark chicago morning. lying in bed wouldn’t do. lately, i’m awake all the time anyway, the weight of duty pressing on me. it gets light so quickly, i see, once you start moving. already, my used-to-be white curtains are letting in the first traces of dawn. still no sun, just hints of what could be morning or dusk.
i eased myself out of bed, so as not to wake others. last night, after the POTUS’ state of the union address and facebook frolicking (while) obama-high, i settled into velour and dark sleep to dream a few scenes. the last centered around family. children, romping and competing through our (an anonymous OUR) house. loud, bossy, fun. somehow i was more than one child’s mother in this life. caught myself in her bureau mirror, in tones and textures of a settled-in mother. looked. thought. paused. knowing. me. as her.
woke up and felt like i am currently or already have squandered away (away!) my most viable childbearing years. and maybe i won’t ever have more children, as a result of this or that, but there is still a voice inside that urges me to walk swifter through this life. that line from some astrology book years ago: don’t hide away all that good stuff too long. funny how it came to inform (dominate) (dictate) (challenge) (haunt) my existence, this perpetual push to do more. the human push to do more. maybe everyone doesn’t feel these urges? maybe some feel complete when they come home from work? when they go to sleep? i prefer (read: need) a feeling of busy-ness, of having many things to do. to complete, to check off the list, to check off the list gives me the greatest feeling of satisfaction. and if i’m not checking, then i’ve dawdled at the roses too long. missed my train. i’ll have to run to catch up. but that’s ok, i think (i don’t do resolutions, i do evolution!). it’s as fate would have it. and apparently, i’m up (now) for the challenge.
alternative ending: reading about howard zinn–just the number of books he’s written, for one–shames me. i’m 32. he was 87. it’s time to start my day.
Nonfiction Woman 